


In Which Too Much Happens At Once

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [3]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AU building, Claws, Gen, In Both Of Them, In Which Wilson was never a gentleman, In which I edit the title and summary because they were bothering me, Kind of AU, Low Sanity, Maybe Maxwil If You Squint?, Nor a scientist, Repressed Memories, Self Harm, Slightly Regretful Maxwell, Solitude For An Infinite Amount Of Time Causes Problems, The Knowledge was college level, Train of Thought, Vague Sometimes, Weird Fluff, anxiety/panic attacks, past death, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: It's hard, trying to articulate infinite, yet finite timelines. Immortality and a general amnesiac coping mechanism of the mind, coupled with an unstable mentality, really don't work out in the long run.It's such a twisted up, knotted yarn ball of a dimensional plane that should not be functioning at all, and that has some bad effects on third dimensional mortals.





	1. Probably Shouldn't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which unhappy, vague things are remembered, semi self harm stimming/anchoring, and the one who caused this feels bad and tries to help.
> 
> Health: 135  
> Hunger: 46  
> Sanity: 75

Wilson knew he was overthinking things, making them worse off than they actually were. 

There wasn’t even anything bad happening, everything was normal, calm, a full moon soon to be on the horizon, the calm before the storm. Literally nothing at all, and yet here he was, rocking and holding his head in his hands. 

It was soon to be dark, a long dusk dragged on and on, the night cycles skewed and he wasn’t getting any sleep now, it was just too…too…

The buzzing wasn’t stopping anymore. Some sort of dull ache, a ringing noise, and it settled deep, not just in his ears but a hard lump in his gut, a knot that burned and froze in waves in his chest, settled between his lungs, resting on the heart, lulling its beat. It wasn’t hurting, but it was heavy, a dragging weight, almost painful and yet not at all, and it was too thick in him, lodged in his throat and bubbling toxins.

The pressure of his hands on his head wasn’t distraction enough, but his claws were sharp, thin pinpricks in his skin. He had to be careful with them, because he forgot he even had them most days. That led to blood, an itch turning into a scratch, and it clotted and scabbed badly, healing slow, and was that because of his claws, or because he was just so naturally unhealthy?

He hated this, this stupid march of thoughts, wild tangents, twisted and random, trying to be a distraction, and yet it did nothing for him. He still remembered.

A twitch of the hand, just a tremor, surely involuntary, and it was a quick shard of pain, dull and hot. He didn’t like pain, of course not, but pulling his hands down to look at the blood on his claws, Wilson could feel it drain away, a slight ease of tenseness. It was because he was moving his thoughts, taking his mind away for a second, and it was just a twitch of the lips, a slight flutter of relief for a second, a stutter in the ringing, not anything else, though he knew what it looked like. He knew it was the wrong expression to the sight of blood, knew that if anyone saw him like this…

But who would? Maxwell? That was laughable, and if Wilson could have he would have laughed. Alas, the dark ash in his throat made that impossible, some sort of twined noose tight, locking jaws that grinded and grinded and grinded, the hot throb in his head intensified with each nerve shock in his jawbone. It hurt now. It has always hurt.

The former King was elsewhere. Gathering supplies, exploring, thinking, dying; Wilson didn’t know, and couldn’t let himself guess. If he did, it was just another wandering path, twisting into loop and trying to avoid the problem, the situation, trying so desperately to ignore everything again.

He was just too clear headed now, today, this week. Touching the machine made him ill, because he could remember it, and it had halted construction completely. Wilson was the one to do physical labor, to work and build and plan, and this technology was staring to grip his brain between too many hands and was trying so hard to dig deeper, to root downwards and grow, take over, rot him inside out-

Fungus taking over, make him dull, and God wouldn’t that be something-

Except no, he didn’t want that. Wilson didn’t want that, he was vehemently against it, no, please, he didn’t want to think anymore, he didn’t want to feel anything ever again-

His claws went back to his head, to tangle in matted hair, the scratch still bleeding, feeling the tugs of knots and the chunks of other scabs, of blood from who knew where that has hardened into a slabs of muck and filth. Pressure again, forget again, tug, tug, tug, he just had to be kept distracted and working and.

But what else to do besides the machine? What else was relevant again? Nothing truly mattered, especially with the plain old fact of the universe that Wilson could never truly die.

A twisted resurrection, corrupted rebirth, and it was damnable to see his own corpses staring back at him, mistakes that led to painful death, and once he remembered beating back vultures from one because damn it, that was him, they weren't allowed to pick him over, not greasy scavenging buzzards! He was not for them, not for anything that roamed here, he was not to end up slips of flesh in some monsters belly, no!

It was the fact he could remember it, so, so clearly, as if he was right there, staring at his shell of rot again, the hissing irritation from the birds; it had been hounds, massive jaws and deep throated howls, and he should have known to be careful in the desert, it was home to such creatures, but he had thought he'd be fine, that he could outrun them, fight them off, anything, and instead they had caught up. 

What was he supposed to feel, seeing his broken corpse uneaten, the wolves leaving it to bake in the sun?

Wilson winced, having tightened his claws to try and bring himself some stability, the pain blossoming over his scalp for a moment before fading to an ache. He wasn’t bleeding hard yet, he was sure, because he knew what that felt like. Accidents, maybe, and the crawling shadows harassing him, slithering about, untouchable and yet invisible hands were there, on his wrists and legs, soft grips that were so, so…

He could remember one time, hated it, hated the fact the memory was unbidden yet as clear as day; they whispered, low mumbles, not tugging or pulling like the more solidified shades did, but were light touches, ghosting sensations and he hated them, hated thinking something was on his shoulder or touching his back when nothing was there, not even imaginary shadows. It had been an accident, him forgetting about his claws; before, before this world and all this, in a deserted alley or dingy bar, he had pulled his hair, had clawed his head, inflamed lines, and it was normal, just a check of reality, something to think about, to keep his mind off of other painful things, everyone did that from time to time, didn’t they?

Except he had forgotten, and the static bundled around him, muffled ears and almost blinded by buzzed light, and the pain didn’t hit until afterwards, icy hot, shards digging into his scalp and the blood had been a little much, everything a little too much, and that time had been so short, hadn't it? Only just got enough gold to get started, had angered a few too many treeguards, their auras so, so thick and heavy, too many worm holes-

He had learned from that, right? Less worm hole jumps, more travel, carefully dragging the treeguards to territorial beefalo and pig villages, he had learned from his mistakes.

But the claws still slipped by, a shock when he just tries to itch his face or chest and hurting himself by accident, sometimes enough to draw blood.

The infection from the scratches on his head got him back then, not the initial blood loss. Wilson remembered that, remembered being collapsed under a tree, hoping something would find and end him soon, but instead was dragged somewhere else, fever and swelling and infection rolled into a mass of hysterical confusion and pain before finally it got dark with death.

The sudden sound of footsteps, crushed leaves and dry grass, was startling and snapped him awake, his heart thudding hard as he scrambled to stand up, pulling his claws out of his tangled hair, a flickering hope that he looked normal, that he didn’t look wrong, tremors shivering through his arms and shoulders. He knew who it was of course, because literally no one else was in this place, he had made sure back then, exploring and trying so hard in the hope that he wasn’t alone.

While he had been in solitude, it wasn’t because no one else had been dragged here. It was because of distance, because of size, and the world was very, very big and Wilson was just unlucky enough to always miss someone else, a few steps behind, and that was always to happen, wasn’t it?

Maxwell was only around him because of the Thrones new ruler. She had thrown him near to the former Kings camp; whether because of pity or pure coincidence, Wilson did not know.

The instant Maxwell was in sight he looked down, away, because it was still unreal, knowing someone else was here, and it still scared him. Not to mention that the former King seemingly had a natural aura of shadows around him.

“You could have left a note. I needed help with something earlier and you were nowhere to be found.”

Wilson was silent, waiting as Maxwell continued speaking, the ringing in his ears low but constantly there. He could feel the stare, the judging, because that was natural, wasn’t it, to judge someone who didn’t look right, and he knew he didn’t look right, wasn’t right at all-

The snap of fingers startled him, a sped up intake of breath, and his glance up at Maxwell was not ignored, a stumbling step backwards, then he quickly diverted his gaze, a flicker of shame because his mind had wandered again, disconnected from reality for only a moment-

“You're not listening. Pay attention when I'm talking to you.”

A moment of silence, almost awkward, heavy and it was hard to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. Wilson could feel the sound again, vibrations and whispers from outside, shivery sparks of shadow and faded withered shades darting about. He should try and pick flowers soon, try and get this back under control, because it would only be a matter of time before those eldritch horrors tried to engulf him, strip the flesh from his bones and leave nothing left over to rot in the sun.

He tried to stay still as Maxwell suddenly moved, a flinch when the man leaned closer, keeping his gaze glued to the ground and its decaying layer of leaves.

“…Why are you bleeding?”

There was a moment of silence, of Wilson processing the question, frozen for a second, and then it was a switch and he found himself glaring up at Maxwell, brow furrowed and putting his hands behind him, curling claws to try and hide evidence. His own stuttered speech was quiet, rough because of a variety of factors, including his refusal to take care of himself as of late – no one should know that, that was his problem, no one else's, and if he died from it all the better – and it was mostly a spark of bitterness, ghosting aggression, of what are you talking about, what do you mean, I have no blood on me, what are you implying?

Maxwell leaned back, raising his hands in defense at the sudden shift in behavior. Wilson could see the wheels turning in his head, flashes of expression for a moment, before the former King slipped an all too familiar expression on his face and relaxed his posture.

“Not my problem then. Just thought I'd ask.”

Without another word Wilson was left alone, Maxwell headed in the direction of their camp and the machine, straight backed and smooth. Wilson watched for a moment, wavering and wobbling, misplaced aggression floundering in his mind and chest, the stinging on his scalp itching and digging in, before he followed. It was going to get dark soon anyway.

He regretted leaving camp now. No work had been done on the machine, and did Maxwell notice that yet? Would he notice? The scratches he's inflicted onto himself were also detrimental; not dangerous or fatal, but they hurt and were distracting enough.

It lulled the dull ringing, vibrations easing away, because the pain was hot and an ache, stingers stuck in his skin, but it would be hard thinking of anything else for awhile. Opening and closing his fists, claws wet in blood, pricking his palms almost soothingly with jabs of discomfort, Wilson stared at the path under his feet. For a moment it was blank, soundless and regular as his mind calmed.

And then that broke, almost running into a solid mass, and Wilson took a few steps back in surprise, not having noticed the other man until he almost ran into him. They locked gazes, Maxwell’s face drawn into a tight frown, Wilsons hardening and slanted into a slight sneer. The former King was examining him, looking at him, for something or other, probably wanted him to go get something or do something else, and Wilson felt aggravated again, because no, he was not going to do anything, not now, gut turning with unknown bitterness, and after a moment Wilson pushed passed him, stalking back to camp, digging his claws into his palms.

The semblance of balance held until he got to camp, until he had gotten into his raggedy tent, and then he had a difficult time prying his own claws out of his skin. It hurt, and had broken out into more bleeding, sharp holes and cuts that burned, and when he raised his claws to his face, to access the damage on his head, it was a surprise. Occupied with other things, he hadn't noticed; rivulets of blood were making their way down his forehead. Was that what made Maxwell stop then?

It stung, just brushing over, and with his hands already dirtied it didn’t ease the situation. There was some silk in his tent, something he was saving for something else that he couldn’t remember, and the strips wrapped nicely around the cuts in his palms, but he had nothing he could do about the injuries on his scalp.

All the better, and fairly normal. When was the last time he had taken care of his hair?

Not even before this world had he done that. 

And that brought the clearness back, and was he angry because of that? Something vague, unreasonable, because…because…

Wilson sat heavily onto his makeshift bed of worn beefalo fur blankets and straw rolls. He held his head in his hands, not tightly, the burn of inflamed pain there but not intense just yet, feeling thought and memories as if they were physical things, globs of slime residing in his head.

It was a reasonable conclusion, abet one that came from his more frantic, hostile and biting ideas. He sought to injure, to dirty an image, and it was only to convince himself in some twisted way.

Of course Maxwell probably had it better back then. The man probably had a good life before all this, before whatever happened to make him part of the Throne and a creator of this shadow world. He acted too well brought up, polite and eloquent, normal and a true gentleman.

No matter how many times Wilson told himself it, he was not a gentleman and never was. Tell yourself a lie enough times and they become true, but lies are fragile webs and Wilson had a problem with keeping himself under the belief. It was mostly the forgetting parts, the amnesia, and for awhile he'd be fully in the lie and be almost that pretend person.

And then he'd wake up, be clear, just like right now. He'd see through it, even if he tried to drown under the words again. He was no gentleman, and no where near being a scientist.

Was the Knowledge that had been given to him even that, or was it common sense, known to every college student just starting out? Wilson wouldn’t know, because he had never graduated, had never set foot onto a college campus. His education was small, useless, and it had been hard back then to even get it to that level. His act of running away, from that overcrowded building of other, similar children in his situation, did not improve him in any way.

Was it that that had led him here, or him stealing away in that house? He remembered trying to find shelter, from the rain and lightening that had been scaring him so badly, and that old house in the woods had looked so, so safe. Abandoned it was, as if everyone had gotten up from dinner and ran away, and Wilson had felt so, so happy when he had found the canned foods in the worn pantry. As dirty and dusty as it was, that house had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. Before that, the only other good time he could remember was his short visit in that one building back then, full of odd talking people and slow, patient men, and sometimes he regretted ever leaving that place.

The graves in the backyard said that it had held a great many of people for who knew how long, but Wilson hadn't cared all that much. There were so many things to play with, to look at in that house, without somebody to come along and yell at him, call him names, chase him away, try to restrain him and take him away to somewhere bad.

It was odd. Here, in this world, after that Knowledge, it was as if his mental process…shifted. He remembered certain aspects of his trains of thought, but they didn’t exactly match him now. Was that because of this worlds infinite distorting mechanics or because of something else?

Slightly concerning, a twinge of dread, because what had changed, really? He may be able to think clearer now, and seemed to have better problem solving and planning, but he still had the same problems. The agitation, the frustration, the distractions, the buzzing and fading and fear. He still had them, a heavy cloud enveloped over him, and he still had to deal with them alone.

Was it easier back then? He could recall times, where he could actively ignore the withering in his chest and throat, how his mind wandered and how he just couldn’t understand what was going on, but the times where they consumed and sat like fat toads…he acted out. Lashed out, to be more accurate, and was that another reason for why he had lived alone, in that abandoned old house for so long? He couldn’t get the correct words out, and the clumsiness and sudden bouts of agitation…

And he still had that, though now it was as if he could identify it, know when it was happening and thus be consciously guilty or ashamed at his actions.

Wilson pulled his claws out of his hair, the silk wrappings dirtied already, spots of blood bleeding through. His hands were sore, almost stiff as he stretched them, and the dull throbbing wasn’t very hopeful.

Another thought, because could these get infected? Could the skin around his bone claws get swollen, rot, would it hurt? Could he lose the use of his hands if he left them like this?

After a second of silence, Wilson put his claws down, sighing heavily. The variety of thoughts in his head were contradicting, yes no, no yes, a vortex of too many ideas and continually running trains of thought. If he did this, then that would happen, and did he want that to happen? The problem was that he couldn’t decide. He wanted both, he wanted to get up and leave the tent and actually apply something to his hands and head to help with recovery.

At the same time, sitting here, wallowing and revisiting old memories and ideas, indulging in his own negativity, letting something like infection root into his claws and his scalp and letting it suck the life out of him; that was something he wished for too, in some vague, apathetic way.

It was too even, this will for both options. He knew one was something that he shouldn’t want, would hurt and be painful, but if he was to just come back with a healed body there wasn’t any downside, right? 

Besides the fact he may not appear around the camp. He may come back somewhere far away, alone and solitary once more for who knew how long. Was that the only reason he hasn’t done anything foolish yet? To stay here, in some sort of relative safety and companionship?

The former King was not someone he would have liked to spend the rest of his infinite, immortal life with. Past history aside, Maxwell was just too…uncomfortable to be around? Was that it? Or was that just his time spent in solitude, making him skittish around anyone who was more intelligent than a pigman? Time spent too long alone, making him unused to anyone else but himself, and his distance from humanity as a whole was even before he came here, back when he had hidden away in alleys and empty lots and parks.

And would it be bad if he went back to that? To be out in the wilderness, to hear nothing but his own thoughts and the voices of the creatures of the world? To live and die with no one to think about him or care?

Wilson frowned, pulling his knees to his face and curling up for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, some sort pf roiling wave of emotion in his chest. That want to be alone was there, but damn it all, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave, he couldn’t subject himself to that again. How many times has he died alone? How many times has he wanted someone, anyone, to find him and actually stay with him? And now what, he got something, twisted mockery as it was, and he wanted to waste it all?

At least he was wanted here. Only for the bloody machine, but it was something, to know that someone was paying some sort of attention to him in some way. To know that he was needed.

Maybe not wanted, and maybe after the machines completion he'd be left to himself once more, useless and alone.

Was that fear or anticipation? What should he be feeling?

Wilson shook his head, pulling himself to a stand. He shouldn’t be thinking about all this, he should not be thinking in such ways. He should just leave it all up in the air; what happens will happen, and he shouldn’t be fixating on the future. If it all came up to his choice, then…

Well, he'd make the decision then. Right now, Wilson wasn’t sure he'd make the correct one.

He had to prepare himself before he left the tent. His wounds needed to be attended to, no matter his own chaotic thoughts. If his hands became damaged beyond repair, then he'd be in a very bad spot. His head would heal, they were just scratches, but he needed to clean them. At least make himself presentable, not some mad man living in the wastes.

Hopefully Maxwell had retired to his own tent; Wilson wanted to be left alone, to not be bothered by unnecessary questions or bad attempts at small talk. And if the machine was ever brought up, on how long it was taking to make or how slow he was, Wilson really wouldn’t be able to hold his temper in check.

Taking a big breath of air, exhaling and trying to steady his nerves, Wilson stepped outside.

And promptly ran right into the person he had wanted to avoid.

Maxwell stared down at him as Wilson hissed, rubbing his forehead from the contact and taking a half step back. The silence after was awkward, Wilson trying to look anywhere than at the former King, the anxiety and irritation swirling around in his lungs, wanting to confront him but also wanting to hide back in the tent again.

Thankfully Maxwell took the initiative, holding out something to Wilson, face pulled into a tight frown.

“I believe you have a need for this.”

Wilson peered at it for a moment and then snatched it away, recognizing the mortar and pestle, the slimy pink salve that helped in healing resting inside. His claws tapped against the hardened clay, the silence extending between them, Maxwell watching him, and Wilson fidgeted, because what was he still doing here, why wasn’t he going away-

“…Are you going to need any help applying it?”

Wilson almost snapped at him, almost denied it, almost turned back into his tent, before he realized that yes, he would need assistance, he would need help. He would rather not, but his claws, lacking proper finger anatomy, were not exactly cut out for taking care of injuries. He could graze over wounds, try to be careful, but he had no fingerprints, no padding, only sharped bone. 

Alone, Wilson would do it half hazardous, smearing spider gland goop in the general area with the smooth sides of his claws or the back of his knuckles. It never ended up clean or well done, sometimes not even helping stave infection because it didn’t even reach the wound, but it was the best he could do then.

Wilson bit his lip, claws tightening on the mortar, before he finally let out the breath he had been holding. He shouldn’t do this, Maxwell probably had better things to do, and Wilson could just do it himself, could avoid this whole situation, but…

Well, help would be appreciated. Again, the want to feel wanted.

It was a slight nod, small, and his voice stuttered a little more, a yes, okay, keeping his eyes to the ground, and then Wilson felt the hand on his shoulder. Maxwell slowly steered him, away from his tent, his one escape, and towards the fire pit. Dusk was darkening, turning into night, and Maxwell must have started the fire earlier, the flames strong and comforting, attracting Wilsons gaze for a moment.

There was pressure on his shoulder, Maxwell speaking quietly, and Wilson sat down, the mortar tight in his hands. Maybe he was trembling a little, maybe not, but if he was it had to be because of the weather, nothing else. Nights were getting longer, colder, and he knew that because he's stopped sleeping for awhile now, waiting out the anxiety and the turning of the world, waiting for morning.

Maxwell seated himself next to him, slow and tall, and Wilson suddenly wished he had said no instead. The mortar was carefully taken from him, leaving his claws empty, and he could feel his heart thudding hard in his chest. He didn’t know if he liked being this close to somebody else, someone who seemed to be looming over him, vaguely threatening.

“Hands first.”

Wilson glanced at him, just for a moment, and there was nothing suspicious on the former Kings face, nothing amiss, just an odd concern and concentration, and hesitantly Wilson raised his claws, palms up. The silk bandages he had previously applied hadn't done anything really, peppered with blood and dirtied. 

A waste of silk, Wilson mentally berated himself, staring down at his claws and frowning. He shouldn’t have done that.

The hands on his were startling, even if he knew they were coming, flinching and closing his eyes, leaning away, tense and still for a moment. He could feel the bandages being taken off, carefully, gently, and it was so odd, feeling fingers other than his own. Maxwell himself always had gloves on, dark leather things, and Wilson could feel them now, smooth and…different.

Nerveless in his boney claws, but the sensitivity of his blackened skin, inhuman and impossible, was heightened and Wilson didn’t exactly like the feeling of the spider gland slime there, cold stings seeping into the cuts he'd inflicted himself. An accident, of course; forgotten as well, not realized until after the fact, when he had looked at his claws and seen how they had been digging into his skin a little too sharply, the startling pain a little too sudden but hazed over by his frantic thoughts.

It was silent between them, the cracking of the fire the only sound, and Wilson felt himself relax, the tense feeling seeping away, posture loosing its rigid stance. He kept his eyes closed, though his frown eased after a moment, the soothing movement of fingers on his hands calm and soft.

The sting faded quickly, easing into heat and…the soreness faded, the dull aching still there but not focused. Wilson waited until Maxwell pulled away, opening his eyes to examine his claws and wiggling them for a moment. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was good, wasn’t it?

Didn’t include his head, inflamed scratches and marks, but that was nothing to worry about. They'd heal; he's done it enough times to know, and it wasn’t bad enough to fear death, at least not yet. Wilson didn’t exactly want to think about it, so ignoring the pain for now seemed like the best choice.

And he would have continued to ignore it, pretend that it didn’t hurt, pretend that it hadn't even happened, if Maxwell hadn't been there.

“Look down. Your head is next.”

Wilson felt a spike of sudden anxiety, narrowing his eyes at the former King for a moment, a second of thought, of no and that he was fine, he wouldn't be needing that, but then it deflated. He sighed, looking at the fire for a second, and then nodded, feeling tired. He was too exhausted to argue anyway; let Maxwell do what he wished. It wasn’t going to matter anyway.

With his head tilted down, eyes looking at the earth, Wilson couldn’t see the former King. While his hair stayed in a molded shape, greasy and unkempt, there were enough strands that attended to gravity that obscured his peripheral vision and that set him on edge. He tried to breath steady, even, in through his nose and out through his mouth, just trying to keep still. He did not like not seeing, feeling Maxwell’s presence hovering near him but not being able to look at what he was doing.

There was shifting next to him, movement and leaning, and then there were hands in his hair.

Wilson shut his eyes tight, heart hammering in his chest at the contact, a little terrified. Nothing bad happened, nothing terribly painful, and the former King carefully threaded his fingers through knots and tangles. The scratches on his head hurt, brief, bright pain, and the salve stung, cold and wet, seeping into his wounds.

Wilson breathed quietly, the hands in his hair slow and gentle, easing to his scalp and pulling lightly. His hair wasn’t clean, he's never really taken care of it, and who knew what matter of things have gotten stuck in it; Maxwell’s low tsk made him flinch, a tremor up his back, but the former King didn’t say anything about it, focused on what he was doing.

After awhile, the night dragging on around them, Wilson could feel himself relaxing. It was calm, it was quiet, even with the darkness that had descended over the world, and the feeling of fingers carefully easing out knots, sliding over his sore head, was soothing. The tense fear, of anxiety and paranoia, was leaving, dissolving, and he sighed, focusing on the patterns rubbed into his skull.

The threatened feeling faded, slow dissipation, and Maxwell's presence wasn’t as striking, wasn’t as frightening or heavy as before. Wilson's breathing evened out, slow intakes of air, eyes closed and mind quiet, feeling…feeling…

Safe, was possibly the word. Comfortable, maybe. At ease.

The stinging fell away, the hot pain easing, and even after it felt like his scratches were painless Wilson didn’t interrupt, loosing himself in the slow combing and light pressure. It was…nice, feeling something so gentle on his head after so long only having sharp claws to use. Sharp, pointy, dangerous claws, damaging and bleeding, and that was what caused this in the first place, right?

Slowly the constant dulled ringing in his ears, background noise that drilled low and deep, seemed to dip, fade and empty into silence, and Wilson started to doze, mind focused on the fingers twining through his hair, relaxed in the comfortable silence of the night and the glow of the fire.


	2. Probably Couldn't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is vague and confusing, following a train of thought. Someone is around who tries to help, though they don't exactly know what is going on.
> 
> Health: 150  
> Hunger: 31  
> Sanity: 14

“I-I'm ssorry I di-didn’t sssay-“

“Hush.”

The breaking point had really been insignificant. Just a question, of yesterday, of food or animals or monsters or weather or machine, and he shouldn’t be acting this way, he shouldn’t be doing this at all-

But he couldn’t handle it anymore. The lack of sleep, the semi starvation, the scratches and injuries and. He couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t remember, just a heavy pressure, buzzy cracks in his brain, not even shattered because of the slow moldy rot on the surface, and he knew it wasn’t right, things like this didn’t happen, and yet he should have expected so, the lack of proper universal law, lack of universal consequences - he's eaten his own dead body in a fit of desperation once, for Gods sakes nothing was right, nothing was possible, it was all wrong-

It hurt, this logic crammed in his head, this open room behind his eyes, cramped and stained with tar, and he wasn’t used to it, never noticed it before, because before was a focus on others, on topics that had seemed so, so important, and now, now…

Nothing mattered now, nothing at all.

“Sshould j-ju-just forg-get aand. Aaand, an, aand-“

“Sshh.”

Quiet hum in the chest, not his own, and a part was still there, still clinging to thoughts, still trying to keep a semblance of order, keep to forgotten society rulings, nervous and anxious and embarrassed and ashamed and-

But a hand in his hair, fingers trailing through carefully, knots and tangles tugged lightly, and he couldn’t think for a moment, confusion and fear and terror and utter panic-

He may be sobbing, puffs of air expelled from his lungs, it hurt to breath, throbbing of the heart, it hurt and. And the touch, firm pressure on his head, parting hair and pressing patterns into his skull, slow and soothing and calm. Face pressed against a shirt, of sweat and smoke and cigars, leaning heavily, eyes closed, struggling to suck in another breath of air, trying to breath, expand the lungs, bring oxygen to the brain and body, and-

Coughing, crying, he was a mess, it hurt, dull ringing and poisoning, dripping down into his throat, acid in his eyes, don’t look and can't see, shadows hovering and watching, pale milk and moonshine, but they didn’t touch, not yet, not yet, he had to be alone first, had to be so alone, gone from existence, no one was there anymore, nobody ever was. Yet the heartbeat, steady thrums, vibrations and his head pressed against a smoke tainted shirt, it was there, and the hand on his back, palm pressing firmly, holding him steady, still, it was there, it wasn’t gone, it was still there-

“I-I I ca-canttt-“

“…”

Another gasp for breath, ducking his head into smoke riddled fabric, claws tight in shirt and jacket, clinging, the last thing left, the only thing left, it was all he had, it was all he had left, no one else was here, no one else cared anymore and. No response, sound in his head, loud drums babbling gibberish, one two three four, one two three four, one two three four, and the hand in his hair was lower, against the back of his neck, smooth leather brushing lightly, shivers up his spine.

Feeling of movement, of a heavy, full sigh, and pressure, pushing his head closer, and it was only a moment of resistance, tenseness, fear, pain and. And it was different, warmth, skin, a beat of life pressed against him, and.

A choked sob, uncomprehending, uncontrollable shivers, levers dogging down, trying so, so hard to pass misinformation, of fear and panic and pain, but it was warm, it was alive, it was real, he was real, he was here, he was not gone, not dead, not forgotten-

The hand on his back moved, tight circles, eased progression, fingers pushing firmly into his back, through vest and shirt, slow thought infringing-

And he pressed his face closer, tenseness shivering away, eyes shut but the tears were there, hanging on, unforgotten, flowing at another sob, unbidden and painful and unknown, random. He could feel, feel his body, life and heartbeat, stutter in breath, and his own wheeziness clattered up, gulps of air, not enough, not enough-

“Another breath, pal. Just take another breath.”

Sputtered laugh, unwanted, strangulation, and for a second he tried to raise an arm, tried to raise up the claws and pain, then defeat, one leather hand grasping his, keeping away from his own scalp, pulling, pushing down to his lap, resting, but his skull needed to be peeled, bleach black mold, rub it out, carve and scrape and smother, and his hand went limp, injury thwarted, or maybe victorious, not a given clue, warped pull and push, leather fingers touching quietly, trying to calm, around wrist and palm and fingers, twined slowly, given a grip.

“Easy, easy, it's alright.”

Slow entanglement, light circles on his neck with a gloved thumb, slow dulled touch, feeling, starvation, and he clawed up for a moment, sudden rush, surprise, sharp tips torn into clothing, but now closer, legs pulled up, hanging on, leaning and being held, smell and feeling and shifted sudden sight, and he turned, setting his forehead against an exposed neck, anchored, shivery tremors, misremembered and misinterpreted, squeezing his eyes shut and hissing in response.

Sense of touch, he was here, he was here, repeat, low static, eyrie, loud, keening wail, God he didn’t want this, he didn’t want anything, he wanted it to stop, he wanted everything to stop, and yet. His own heart, dull rotted, charred, burned gray, fist sized, tasteless, useless, still pulsing, still throbbing, heavy beats, exhausted, let it rest, let him rest, another gasp of air, it hurt to breath, it hurt to choke, the thing in his throat, slab of bloody meat, hunk of pulped organ, of his body and mind, and-

“Take it slow. Another breath, there you go.”

Mumbling thrum, a hum of voice, deep vibrations, and maybe he tried to hum back, stuttered and stunted, slight distraction, hissing air between teeth, dull pull back, stringed instrument of age, broken, twisted, useless, unimportant-

“Come on, it's okay. Keep going, breath.”

Trying to follow, hearing it all, suck in air, cold, sharp, piercing the lungs, fill with blood, choke on that, casket filled, death and dying, slowly, oh so slowly, better than nothing, better than anything else, give a laugh, give a grave, give a moments second peace, silence, never talk again, don’t try, and yet-

“D-don’t ne-ne-nee-eed ttto, jjusst for-forggget, al-alrigh-t, tt-“

A hush, silencer, firm, and his tongue was twisted, too much, can't understand, can't remember, it will be forgotten, over soon, gone, and he wont remember any of it, nothing there, cobwebbed over, skitter of insects, corpse beetles consuming flesh memories, arachnids of a different caliber, and it will all be vanished soon enough.

A steady anchor, still, stone, and he could still feel heartbeats, his own too much, too hasty, too broken, but a lull, quiet beats of another pattern next to him, calming. Sense of touch sensitive, almost overwhelming, fingers on his hair and twined with his hand, drawing tension away, a distraction, and the gibbering in his head, the worlds shadows converged and whispered, slow, easy, words on a page of nothing, sounds of many mouths, saliva filled zealots, and it rose up, loud, obnoxious, screeching songs that pricked and poked, swallowed the world itself and hinted of more to come, leeching life off, raw and uncut, ethereal and beyond understanding that hovered and wanted and drilled down, in his head, breaking through a skull of fuzzed mold, rotted slats with nothing inside, nothing of use, and-

And then dulled, muffled, a low hum loud enough to overthrow, not from his throat, vibrating thrum of ease against his own chest, listen close, and it stilled the rumbled roar in his ears, knocks in his head, and it wasn’t silence, but almost, almost close enough. Tightening on his hand, fingers around his claws, the awareness of his own dangerousness suddenly flaring, a debate on pulling away, don’t want to hurt, don’t want to injure-

But he didn’t, stayed still, low wheezing gasps from his chest, stuttered, feeling the hands rested on his own, and the trembling intensified for a second, tremors and pain and worse, the leveling out slow, evenly threading away, tension slipping out, the stress a thudding headache and soreness, thick lead exhaustion dragging him down and deep. He wouldn’t have been able to stay up himself, strength of will dissipated and empty, but he leaned heavily, warmth and breathing of other life, holding him carefully, firmly.

It was quiet, mumbled creaks underneath but not above, hidden away and waiting, but nothing was there now, nothing was making sound now, just slow breaths, of his own and the one holding him. Things slowed, eased into a horizon, static clearing away, and the brightness of the world faded, became of a singular shade once more. Heavy heartbeats, thick in his chest, slowed and pounding, thrumming in tune with his blood, but that too faded, conscious slipping in and out until it cleared, smog gone and the empty room almost blindingly white.

He opened his eyes, blinking and orientating himself after a moment. Resting, head leaning on someone's chest, tired and worn out but clear headed. Closing his eyes again, just breathing, in and out, inhale, exhale, slightly off beat with the rising and falling of the others chest, only light tremors shivering in his spine and shoulders, tears dried and emotions easing into a mist cloud.

They were silent, maybe looking down at him, maybe avoiding looking at him, but they tensed for a moment as his grip tightened around their hand. Careful with his claws, careful, but they returned the motion, warm and leather textured fingers curled around his, a frim, comforting grip.

Wind through nearby trees, occasional birdsong, but it was tranquil, quiet, easy, nothing else to break the trance of calm.


End file.
